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User blog:Kanthia/Shall We Write Us Into the Dust?
(Takes place in the month of Hammer) Shall We Write Us Into the Dust? “One for the baby,” Ruthea says, ripping a piece of paper and tossing it into the fire. “And one for the fire.” She rips another piece of paper off, and tosses it in. The little campfire spits sparks into the night air, dancing alongside snowflakes. “One for the bride on the – ah, fuck it.” She tosses the entire rest of the letter in. “Damn it all.” (That’s not, you suspect, how the rhyme is supposed to end.) If you’d followed her since she’d first moved into town, you’d have noticed that of late she’s looking a different sort of ill – the grimy thing that used to cut purses is now looking taller and more angular, severe, a little more certain, a little more uncertain. She pouts less and frowns more, and has gotten into a bad habit of smiling with half her mouth. But she’s not smiling now, as she kicks snow over the fire she’s hastily constructed out of letters from the man she’s fallen out of love with, muttering curses under her breath. Hemotheurgy! Did he really think that screwing up his body was going to get him out of his marriage, make his children adore him, bring him the adventure he was looking for? And here I thought – she kicks the fire again, sending a shower of sparks skyward – and here I thought…something. ''That she would buy her way home? That she would earn his love somehow? That she wouldn’t be five years older than she used to be, far from home, no longer a child? And how could she explain in words to him, how much more and how much less of a person she’s become because of it? ''There he is, spiking his body with blood, thinking it’ll get him what he wanted all along – a way out. Hah. She toes a last bit of snow over the fire, snuffing it completely. A little scrap of paper, still not completely burned, catches her eye: Norr’s beautifully patient penmanship, where he had written to her that everyone is the protagonist in their own life. She grabs it, singes her palm, casts a spark and watches it dance. People are stupid sometimes. The thought brings her back to that afternoon on the beach, when everything seemed to flip on its head: Arcade’s overwhelming presence, his easy smile, that feeling of standing before someone who was incredibly, unequivocally superior. It had taken seven of them, and even then they hadn’t taken him down – only bored him into submitting. How much, in that moment, had she wanted to let him go free! How badly had she wanted to go with him! How much, during that whole fight, had she wanted to fight on his side! (Because, she thinks, we all know who was in control, then. And Ru wants nothing but to be on the winning side, at the end of it all.) She realizes that she’s been breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed by the hot and the cold, and she straightens up, wipes spittle from the corner of her mouth. She could see them even still: Norr, with his freckles and brown eyes, carrying leeks home from the market; Arcade, with blood-red eyes, lounging on the beach. They’re the same person. In a stupid sort of way, both knew that power was the only freedom. And I, she thinks, and I’m no better, really. Her hands are shaking. She sits down, lights a lantern with a shaking hand, starts cleaning her sword for lack of anything better to do. The katana – a gift, and she’s still bothered by the notion of gifts – is warm to the touch, and she finds herself idly wishing that she had kept her rapier. Hey, Arch-Psion, she thinks, feeling stupid. This is what I’ve turned into. And it has started so innocently: that first afternoon, when they were all still young, and she had still hated Rinzler, when she had thought Roswell handsome; she had still loved Norr, then, madly. Then there had been Rain, and Plainsview, and Hanz, and Calmex, and Alejandra’s mopey son, and the Diamondback; then there had been the letter to Fiona, on the eve of the Battle of Willowdale, and the letters back from Norr. I don’t think you’re looking for some'one'', Norr had once said. I think you’re looking for some'where. Well, surely. Every time she thinks of Arcade she thinks of a sunset, and an open road, and a long, long way to go. She makes another small fire, atop the ashes of the last, and burns a pinch of pipeweed. ''Shall we write us into the dust, then, she thinks, unhappily, thinking of Norr’s slowly disfiguring form, and the bruises along Rinzler’s fingers, and the sight of Kat’s face upon her return to Korred’s hut, and Alejandra’s children – one merrily bounding off into the forest with Jura, the other stealing guns – and Noale, who left and never returned. And shall we carve our names into cobblestones, bound to be nothing but desert and dry bones? The pipeweed burns itself out without much of anything happening, and Ru is reminded that the lives of mortals mean little in the grand scheme of things, and that a wolf's howl rings truest from far away. Category:Blog posts Category:Reflection